


Satellite (I'm Part Of You)

by Brenda



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Protective Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 04:31:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6785320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I'm okay, Steve."  Bucky raised his hand to cup Steve's jaw, his thumb slowly stroking over stubble. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Steve shuddered once, all over, then brought his own hand up to cover Bucky's.  Felt the calluses and nicks, the steady pulse beating at his wrist.  "I thought I was gonna lose you again."</i>
</p><p><i>Bucky gave him a small, fond smile.  "I thought </i>I<i> was gonna lose </i>you<i>."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Satellite (I'm Part Of You)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [卫星（我是你的一部分）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6846244) by [ashleyfeel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashleyfeel/pseuds/ashleyfeel)



> Translation into Russian available: [Satellite (I'm Part Of You)](https://ficbook.net/readfic/4388659) by [chainsmoking](https://ficbook.net/authors/802618).
> 
>    
>  **Spoilers for Captain America: Civil War**

_Just keep walking. One foot in front of the other. Don't look back._

Steve kept up the mantra in his head as he secured his hold around Bucky's waist and marched forward. Spine ramrod straight, head held high, every step taking him further away from the only security he'd known the last few years – away from the Avengers and the life he'd rebuilt, the new family he'd finally started to call his own. His shoulder blades itched without the comforting weight of the shield strapped across his back; he felt unbalanced, unprotected, adrift. Acutely aware of just how vulnerable even _his_ body was without the protection he'd carried for years.

But, under the roiling tangle of emotions coursing through him: the regret and the grief and the anger and, yes, even the love – there was another, deeper feeling. A truth he wouldn't – one he _couldn't_ – name. Not just yet. Not until he had a lot more in the way of time to sit with it and process everything that had happened.

"Still with me?" he murmured in Bucky's ear, as they started their slow, careful ascent up the winding stairs. There was concrete and metal debris everywhere, but the structure still looked safe enough for the moment. Steve didn't want to linger to find out any different.

"Yeah," came Bucky's raspy reply. The word drawn out – slow, but clear enough. Steve had no idea how Bucky was even conscious, let alone upright and walking, but he'd take it. Right now, they needed to put as much distance between themselves and Tony as they could. Even out of commission, with the suit in smoldering ruins encasing his body, Tony was still a formidable opponent. And one Steve would never underestimate, especially not now.

He knew just how motivational rage and determination could be.

Bucky's fingers tightened around Steve’s neck as they shuffled awkwardly up one flight, then another, each one a small, but crucial, victory. And, with each step, Steve could feel them both shedding the personas they'd been tied to for far too long. No longer the Winter Soldier, no longer Captain America. Neither of them tethered to their pasts, or crushed under the burden of responsibility – either for the well-being, or the taking, of far too many innocent lives. As of now, for the first time in almost seventy-five years, they were just two boys from Brooklyn, battered and torn, but still standing. 

Still together, still a team.

Bucky was here and with him, by his side and in his arms, right where he belonged, and it was just like – 

Steve stopped himself. He couldn’t afford those thoughts right now. There would be time, once they were clear and safe. Once they were out of range of Tony’s wrath.

"You…" Bucky licked dry, cracked lips, and tried again. "You didn't – you _knew_." Each word sounded like it was being scraped out of Bucky's throat with a dull razor blade. Just hearing it hurt.

"Knew?" Steve repeated, glancing over at Bucky in confusion. "Knew what?"

"About...Howard. What I did." 

Steve jolted to an abrupt halt, foot poised mid-step. All of the blood in his veins turned to ice. _Howard_ , he thought, and _fuck_ and _I'm so sorry._ But he still managed to get out, through the lump lodged against his windpipe: "Yeah. Yeah, I did."

Had read that particular file with clenched fists and a helpless rage. One he could still feel beating wildly in his chest, burning through his body like acid. It was nothing compared to the helplessness of watching the actual video footage – of seeing Howard's last moments, hearing the confusion in his voice, then the sickening crunch of bones, and his wife’s last, desperate gasps for breath – with his own eyes, and knowing there was nothing he or Tony or even Bucky could have done to stop it.

"Then why?" Bucky asked, giving Steve a confused look. Like he'd expected – fuck, like he'd expected Steve to join forces with Tony back in the chamber and go after him. Like he’d somehow _deserved_ the beating he'd gotten at Tony's hands. "How could you choose...? Howard was your friend. He was _our_ friend and I killed him."

 _Because it wasn't you_ , Steve wanted to say. _Because you're just as much a victim as Howard and Maria Stark and everyone who died in Sokovia or Vienna or D.C. Because I was the one who let you fall and this is all on me. Because Howard might've been my friend – Tony might've been my friend – but neither of them is the heart that beats below my ribcage._

He wanted nothing more than to pull Bucky flush against him. To press kiss after kiss to that frowning mouth until it softened. To offer reassurances the best way he knew how. 

_Not yet. Not until it’s safe._

"We made each other a promise almost a century ago, Buck," he said, instead. "And I dunno about you, but when I said to the end of the line, I meant it." 

Bucky sighed, his breath tickling the hairs at Steve's neck. "No one would blame you for breaking it," he said, low, barely a whisper.

" _I_ would," Steve replied, steel hardening the words. This was his mountain, and he'd be damned if he ever moved from it. That was the _only_ promise that mattered.

Bucky didn't say anything in response, but he shifted a little more of his weight against Steve's side, which was an answer in and of itself. They continued their slow, methodical climb up to the main level, then out the huge bay doors. The wind slapped at them, cold and bitter, but Steve studiously ignored it. The quinjet was only half a klick away.

Bucky shivered against him as his step faltered and his grip went slack. "Adrenaline wear off," he said, before Steve could open his mouth to ask for another status update. "I'm fine."

Which was bullshit, and they both knew it.

"Buck," Steve started, but then he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. 

He twisted, cursing his lack of weapon even as he angled himself so he was in front of Bucky, a human shield between him and any threat. T'Challa was standing before them in his Black Panther uniform, cowl off, and both hands raised palm up in an age old gesture of peace. 

Behind him, Bucky tensed, taut as a bowstring.

"Your Highness," Steve said, and nodded his head in respect. He kept his own hands loose and by his sides. Ready to defend Bucky and himself if needed.

"Captain," T'Challa greeted, then his eyes narrowed as he took in their battered and bloodied appearance, and Bucky's missing arm. "You may stand down, Sergeant Barnes. I have no desire to resume our fight."

"Then why _are_ you here?" Steve asked. He didn't move. Tony had said pretty much the same thing not even an hour ago. 

If T'Challa wanted Bucky, he was going to have to go through Steve to get him, and Steve still had plenty left in the tank.

"That is a story worth recounting, but I don't believe now is the best time. Perhaps later, after I bring Mr. Zemo to Berlin," T'Challa replied, and gestured behind him. It was only then that Steve noticed Zemo was lying on the ground, unmoving, his hands zip-tied behind his back.

"Is he breathing?" Not that Steve would blame T'Challa if he wasn't. But Zemo was Steve’s only real shot at clearing Bucky's name for the U.N. bombing.

"Oh yes. And I will endeavor to make sure he continues to do so, and faces justice for his actions." There was a wealth of dark satisfaction in T'Challa's voice. "And what of Mr. Stark? Is _he_ still breathing?"

Steve wanted to ask how T’Challa had known Tony was here, but maybe Tony had asked him to come as backup, just in case. 

"He's alive," Steve said, curt but definitive. He wasn't quite ready to untangle that particular knot. Wasn't sure when he ever would be. He and Tony had never been what anyone would call close – losing him didn't cut nearly as deep as when Steve had thought he'd lost Natasha – but they'd still built something together. Something they’d both thought would last and make a difference. Something that was now broken, maybe beyond repair. 

He hoped, one day, Tony could forgive him. Hoped, one day, Tony would understand why Steve had made his choice. Why he'd make it all over again, every single time, without regret.

T'Challa nodded, once. "I am gratified to hear it."

"But he could probably use a ride back home," Steve added, because that was the least he could do after destroying Tony’s suit. 

"I understand." T'Challa made a small, thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. "And what of the two of you?"

Steve hadn't exactly thought that far ahead. Walking out of the facility with both of them still alive and kicking had been priority number one, but now that they'd accomplished that, he had no idea what his next step was. And it wasn't like either of them had a lot of options.

He glanced at Bucky, who gave a small shrug and shuffled up so he could loop his arm around Steve's neck once again. His weight solid and reassuring and the _only_ thing that mattered.

"Don't look at me," Bucky said, with a rueful smile. "I didn't even think we'd make it out of the compound."

"We'll figure something out," Steve told T'Challa. Right now, he needed to get Bucky to the quinjet and look him over for any other injuries. He needed to be sure Tony hadn't done even _more_ permanent damage than what he'd already inflicted.

"If I may offer a suggestion..." T'Challa trailed off meaningfully.

"I'm listening."

"Your friend is in need of a place to recover without the eyes of the world watching and waiting to pounce as soon as they catch a glimpse of him. You need a place to regroup without the U.N. Security Council breathing down your neck. I could offer both."

"How?" Steve asked.

"By offering you sanctuary at my home."

T'Challa's home. Wakanda. One of the most heavily guarded, and remote, countries in the world. One with no extradition treaties with any other nation. A country that was now ruled by the man standing in front of them.

"Why?" Bucky asked, with a curious tilt to his head. "Why help us?"

T'Challa turned those sad, far too old eyes Bucky's direction. "In my country, we take the paying of our debts very seriously, Sergeant Barnes. And I owe you and the Captain a considerable one."

"You don't owe –"

"We're grateful," Steve cut in, before Bucky could continue. "Just tell me the coordinates on where to go."

If T’Challa was offering sanctuary, they’d be fools not to take it. And whatever the reason for T’Challa’s change of heart, Steve knew he could trust it. The Wakandan people valued honor above all else. 

Since all of Steve’s other friends and allies were either imprisoned or in no position to help, he'd take any offer he could get. Anything, if it meant keeping Bucky safe.

T'Challa walked a few steps to where Zemo was, and pulled a sat-phone out of a rucksack. He pressed a number, then spoke rapidly to the person on the other end in a language Steve didn't recognize. When he hung up, he smiled at Steve, small but genuine, and relayed a set of numbers. "My military advisor knows to expect you and to escort your jet to my private airstrip."

"Again, thank you."

"We should get a move on before Stark figures out a way to rig his suit," Bucky said. Steve nodded. He had no desire to be anywhere near Tony for the foreseeable future.

"I will make sure Mr. Stark gets home safely," T'Challa said.

"Appreciate it." Then Steve wrapped his arm back around Bucky's waist to help him the last hundred yards. "Just a few more steps, okay," he murmured, offering encouragement.

"I'm _good_."

Bucky wasn't – neither of them were – but Steve didn't contradict him. Just matched Bucky's steps up the ramp and into the quinjet. He eased Bucky down onto the nearest seat, shed his helmet, then went to grab the med-kit from the supply compartment. By the time he'd turned around, Bucky was wrestling with the buckles and straps of his tac vest, tension lined in his face.

"Hey, stop, just –" Steve knelt in front of him, placed his hands over Bucky's. "I got this."

After a moment, Bucky let out a shallow breath, then relaxed. "Yeah, okay," he said, and lowered his hand.

Steve made quick work of getting Bucky out of the jacket and vest and shirt, taking care to make his touch impersonal, but gentle. But it was hard to stay impartial when faced with the deep lacerations and scars along Bucky's left shoulder, the puckered bullet marks dotted across the landscape of his chest and sides, and the faded white slashes that had all the hallmarks of old knife wounds. Bucky’s body was a patchwork quilt of horrors both great and small.

Steve wanted to trace every single one with his fingers and lips, wanted to whisper promises and assurances against Bucky's skin, wanted to overlap every scar and every mark with his own. _Never again, I swear to you, I'll never let anyone touch you again._

There was some new bruising – deep purple and black mottling pale skin – and reddened welts, but nothing that looked life-threatening. Except for the dangling wires and bits of metal hanging from the stump of his arm, this could be the aftermath of any of their childhood fights, or any skirmish from their war.

"How're the ribs?" Steve asked, pressing against each one, his eyes glued to Bucky's face for any telltale signs of discomfort. He had dried blood caked to his chin and the corners of his mouth, but at least the bleeding seemed to have stopped.

"Intact." Bucky grimaced as Steve hit a sore spot, then fixed him with an unblinking stare. "How're _you_ doing? You took way more of a beating than me."

" _Really_?" Steve asked, with a raised eyebrow and a nod towards the empty space where Bucky's arm used to be.

"Not the first time it's been compromised," Bucky replied, far too calmly. "I’ve done without before."

Steve didn't want to think about the implications of that statement, not just yet. "Are you, uh, is there some sort of switch or something so you're not –?"

Bucky's lips curved, softening harsh lines; in that moment, time itself spun backwards and Steve was a kid in Brooklyn again, his heart feeling much too big for his small chest. "I'm not gonna electrocute you or myself, if that's what you're worried about. Stark shorted out the wiring when he –"

"Right," Steve said, interrupting him because he wasn't ready to think about _that_ , either. "Makes sense."

"I'm okay, Steve." Bucky raised his hand to cup Steve's jaw, his thumb slowly stroking over stubble. 

Steve shuddered once, all over, then brought his own hand up to cover Bucky's. Felt the calluses and nicks, the steady pulse beating at his wrist. "I thought I was gonna lose you again."

Bucky gave him a small, fond smile. "I thought _I_ was gonna lose you."

Steve shook his head, but didn't move any closer. Didn't erase the distance between them the way he was dying to, because if he did, he'd fall apart, and he couldn’t afford that either. Not until they were safe. _Just a few more minutes_ , he told himself. _Just until we're airborne._ "I knew what I was fighting for."

"So did I," Bucky quietly replied. "You need any help doing pre-flight checks?"

"No, I got it. You just rest," Steve said, and reluctantly took his hand back.

"I still wanna look over you after we're in the air."

"Yeah, sure, whatever you want." He was fine – he could already feel his cuts and scrapes healing and his bones knitting themselves back together. But if it helped Bucky, he'd submit to an examination. Fair was fair, after all.

He walked to the cockpit and went through the pre-flight check, then typed in the coordinates T'Challa had given him. Even as fast as the quinjet was, it would take a few hours to get from Siberia to Wakanda. Plenty of time for him and Bucky to try to devise a plan of action or a way forward. Hopefully having Zemo in custody meant Bucky's name would be cleared at some point, but that still left the small matter of Steve and the rest of the team. Steve still had to find out where they were being kept – maybe T'Challa could help him there, or maybe he could discreetly reach out to Maria if he wouldn’t jeopardize her position at Stark Industries in any way – and free them before Ross did anything drastic.

He was still going over logistics and plans in his head when he turned on the auto-pilot and walked back into the main cabin. Bucky was still sitting right where Steve had left him. He had a far-off, pinched look on his face: brows furrowed, mouth flat, eyes half-closed. His fist was clenched tightly in his lap.

Steve dropped to his haunches, rested a hand on Bucky's knee. "You still with me?"

Bucky exhaled, long and uneven. "When we get there..." He stopped, sighed again. His hair was still hanging in limp strands around his face; they could both use a shower. "I want – the scientific facilities in Wakanda are supposed to be the best in the world. That’s still true, right?"

"Yeah, they're pretty cutting edge," Steve agreed. The country had a reputation for being the most technologically advanced in the world for a very good reason. "You want – is this about your arm? Getting you a new one?"

It made sense. Bucky's old arm had been, at least partially, constructed of vibranium. And the only other place on earth Bucky could have gone to have his arm replaced was Stark Industries, and that particular bridge had been blown to hell, along with everything else in Bucky and Steve's lives. But, right now, with Bucky alive and real in front of him, Steve couldn't find it in him to care.

Bucky shook his head, then reversed and gave a short nod. "It's about _me_."

"You okay?" Aside from the arm, Bucky's injuries hadn't looked all that serious. But Steve wasn't a doctor, or even a medic. There were any number of things he might've missed.

Bucky let out a small, ironic laugh. "That's the question, isn't it."

"Tell me what you need." No matter what it was, Steve would find a way to get it done.

"I need to be put down," Bucky said, and Steve's heart skipped a beat. No. _No._ Whatever it was Bucky was thinking...

Bile rose in the back of his throat, choking him. "Buck –"

"Hey, _hey_ , look at me. Not permanently. Not like that, okay," Bucky assured him. He lifted his hand, fingers tracing a light path along Steve's cheeks and then along his jaw. The touch unbearably hot, unbearably tender. "But – until I know that there's no way I can get triggered again – I need to be kept in stasis."

"You..." Steve couldn't help the recoil as the pieces started to fall into place. "Buck, no. _No_ , you can't want this."

He'd just gotten Bucky _back_. It hadn't even been three days since Bucharest. They'd both barely had time to breathe, let alone try to come to terms with anything that had happened. And now Bucky wanted to... 

There had to be another way, some other option. He couldn't, he _couldn't_ –

"You need to let me do this," Bucky said, firm, but his eyes were filled with a terrible sort of weariness. One Steve would do anything in his power to erase. "I can't be allowed to hurt you again. You or anyone else."

"But what about –"

" _Steve_."

It was just the one word, but Steve heard the anguished plea and the resolve it in all the same. This was Bucky's choice. A choice he was making of his own free will, because he felt like was the right thing to do. A choice Steve needed to respect, no matter how much it hurt. Steve didn't have to like it, but it wasn't about him or what he wanted. 

"Okay," he finally said, swallowing down everything else: his guilt and helplessness and the deep swell of protectiveness that he'd never outgrown. If this was what Bucky needed, then Steve would see it through to the end. "It's your call."

"Thank you," Bucky whispered, gratitude all but seeping out of him, and it was too much. Steve's skin all of a sudden felt far too tight for his body, his lungs far too small for his chest. Between one shaky breath and the next, the entire fucked up day – the entire fucked up _week_ – caught up with him, and he toppled forward, every bit of strength and resolve and grit that had gotten him this far vanishing like mist.

Bucky caught him, bracing him up with a hand to his shoulder, and the concerned look on his face was as familiar as it was missed. A look Steve used to resent with every fiber of his being, back when he'd been younger and angry at the world for an entirely different reason. But now, it was the most beautiful sight Steve had ever seen. Bucky was with him. _Bucky_ – his Bucky – was back.

"Steve, you alright?"

"No," he answered, hoarse and honest, "not really."

Bucky huffed out a small, commiserate laugh – and then suddenly they were kissing, a messy, copper-tasted slide of lips and tongues, Bucky clutching at Steve's neck with his hand, Steve all but scrambling up to straddle Bucky's thighs. His head was swimming, bright fragments of color exploding behind his eyelids, and sparks of electricity danced along his spine. His entire world narrowed down to Bucky – his teeth worrying at Steve's lower lip, his tongue sliding alongside Steve's own, the body under Steve’s hands – warm skin and solid muscle.

They broke apart with a gasp and Steve opened his eyes to find Bucky staring back at him, a look of hunger and need – raw and real and so fucking beautiful – on that beloved face.

"Why did you pull me out of the river?" Steve quietly asked, and waited. Heart in his throat, everything – mind and body and soul – laid bare at Bucky's feet, like a sinner seeking penance.

Bucky just smiled at him, that small curve of his lips so intimately, viscerally familiar. Steve's blood sang in recognition: home, finally, after so many years adrift. 

"You know why," Bucky replied, and kissed Steve again. Slow, like they had all the time in the world. Sweet, like there was nothing on earth Bucky would rather be doing. Tender, like Steve was something precious, breakable, like whatever was between them demanded gentleness.

Steve's lips parted on a sigh, and Bucky swooped in to suckle on his tongue. There were fingers combing through his hair, and then the heavy, muscled weight of Bucky's body bearing down on him as Bucky lowered them both to the floor. Minutes spun out into crystalline shards, each one brilliant and bright, and infinitely precious. They kissed as they fumbled with the buckles and straps of Steve's harness and top, kissed as they both peeled out of the rest of their filthy, rank uniforms, kissed and kept kissing, with bruised lips and seeking tongues, as Steve got one of his hands around their cocks, started stroking, short and even, using spit and sweat as lube.

Neither one of them were going to last very long, abandoning skill for passion as their bodies strained together. Steve wondered how he'd gone this far without this violent churning of emotions inside him, this tangled coil of love and lust and passion, all of it with Bucky’s name.

He flicked his wrist as Bucky rested his forehead against Steve’s, his skin almost unbearably hot where they were pressed together, every point of contact searing Steve from the inside out. They were both panting now, harsh breaths mingling with the staccato thump of their hearts beating in time. Then Bucky lifted his head, his lips red and slick, the black of his pupils almost overtaking the blue. 

_Thank you_ , Steve wanted to say, and _I love you, I’ve missed you, I never stopped_ , but he couldn’t make a sound. Just shuddered and moved, his rhythm faltering as Bucky started kissing him again, achingly languid and sweet, a beautiful contrast to the coiling tension in the base of Steve's spine. Steve opened his mouth, met the slide of Bucky’s tongue with his own. Then re-tightened his grip as pricks of light started to burst behind his eyelids, everything he wanted to say abandoned in the hazy sheen of desire and need.

They'd never needed words anyway.

***

**Author's Note:**

> You can read the continuation of their story here: **[The Arsonist's Choir](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11638344)**.
> 
>  
> 
> Much thanks and love to [Boop](http://boopifer.tumblr.com/) and [Steph](http://stephrc79.tumblr.com/) for looking this over for me, and for all of their love and encouragement.
> 
> You can now find me on [Tumblr](http://brendaonao3.tumblr.com/). :)


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